The Rookie and the Junkie
by radculas
Summary: In the beginning, Lestrade was just a newly promoted officer, Molly an intern, and Sherlock a junkie. Sherlock made mistakes, Lestrade had bad temper, they both smoked, and a serial murderer was on the loose. /Sherlock in image of unaired pilot
1. Chapter 1

Inspector Lestrade took a sip of coffee from his thermos, blinked several times and tried to wake himself up. It was goddamn 3 in the morning. He just wanted to drive back home and sleep beside his newly married wife, where it would be nice and warm under the bed sheet. The detective turned off the engine and shook his head. Stop whining, this is a crime scene. He took a deep breath and placed the thermos back into the holder.

A uniformed officer that Lestrade didn't recognize ran up to him and shook his hand.

"Detective Inspector,"

Lestrade nodded curtly in reply. "So, where's the body?" several cruisers were already stationed around Lestrade's car. The whole road was blocked. The officer gestured toward a wall of blue sheets set up in the middle of the road like a curtain to hide the body from any view of passerby. Not that there are any at this time. Lestrade saw a black Honda Accord parked not so far down the street. A man who seemed to be the driver of the car was sitting down at the curb while one of the officers was questioning him.

"He got out of the car as soon as the vehicle bumped over an unknown object. He immediately called the police when he saw that it was a body."

Lestrade frowned and flashed an expression of annoyance. "Seems like a typical car accident to me? Why did you call me?" The officer coughed in his fist.

"Um…well, the body had some well…unusual characteristics and we thought it might have something to do with your case. I just wanted you to check and see." The hairs on the back of Lestrade's neck prickled with anticipation. "If we're wrong then well…I'm sorry to have called you at such an ungodly hour." The Detective Inspector nodded and approached the blue sheets. He swiftly weaved through the bustling forensics team and the uniformed officer followed. The body was flopped onto his stomach and completely naked. A wheel mark of the Accord was etched across his pale-blue back, but it didn't look as nearly as painful as the other injuries inflicted on the body. There were several gashes on his shoulders, back of his knees, a dark bruise around his neck, and a large portion of his skin on his hip and arms were missing. They were cut out neatly so the red flesh almost looked like a bracelet wrapped around the arm, and the scar on the hip looked like a stencil art of a cat. Finally, there was a bullet wound on the back of his head. He didn't need to flip the body over to check the rest of the details. He recognized the pattern. Lestrade shivered and turned to the officer.

"Thanks for calling."

It was the first time he had ever handled a serial murder as an investigation leader. If fact, it was the first time he ever encountered such a bizarre murder throughout his entire career. Lestrade crouched beside the body and bit his lower lip. A pair of leather shoes appeared beside him. Lestrade looked up to see a heavily bearded face of Sergeant Anderson from forensic services.

"Not much I can do here, sir. It's the first time we ever found one on the road." Lestrade nodded in agreement. Usually, the victims were abandoned in the corner of unpopular parks, vacant alleyway, or public restrooms. This is the first time ever that they found a body in a completely open space. Could it be that the murderer was breaking the pattern or was it a work of a mad copycat?

"Send it to autopsy analysis right away. Check for prints, skin cells, time of death, and the usual stuff" Lestrade instructed and Anderson nodded. The Detective Inspector didn't have high hopes with the autopsy results. They would just leave him to another dead end, just like the other murder victims. No prints, no DNA, no nothing. He would receive a lengthy report on the victim's health conditions, injuries and a thorough description of the ballistics analysis from the head wound. So far he found no link between the murder victims. They had different occupations, different family background, and different age group. Lestrade scrunched up his face. He hated random killers. They were so hard to catch.

Next, Lestrade turned his attention to the driver who found the body. He strolled up to the weary looking middle-aged man and greeted him politely. The interview was quite simple; a standard procedure that Lestrade was all too familiar with. He executed it briskly, knowing that the driver was quite innocent, worn down and tired. Then, he had him escorted to the station for proper interviewing and documentation. He apologized for the trouble.

"It won't be long, sir I promise." The driver threw a very cross look at Lestrade but he climbed into one of Lestrade's subordinate's cruiser.

…

"So…not letting me out?" The tall, lanky young man leaned against the cell door and slurred. His head drooped forward dangerously and bumped into the small barred window painfully. The man didn't seem to notice the pain. He grumbled something inaudible and stared at the constable blankly.

"I'm sorry, but it's not going to happen." The constable shook his head and stifled a yawn. It was almost dawn. "The test results are clear as crystal. You'll have to face the charges."

"No one's bailing me out?" The convict muttered.

"I'll tell you when you do."

"No need. I'm sure he won't let me out for a while…to teach me a lesson." The man shrugged and slouched back to the bunk in the side of the cell.

"Who are you talking about?" No reply came back. The constable opened his mouth to say something but closed it. He wasn't here to hold a conversation with a junkie. His job was done. The young man was lied on his back and stared up at the ceiling. The officer shook his head. The convict was probably too high to sustain a proper conversation anyway. He felt a sense of pity for him. The man was only a few years younger than the constable. He wondered what it must be like to have his life ruined by drugs at such a young turned off the lights and went back to his station.

…

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck as he entered the autopsy room of St. Bart's. Dr. Gables was awaiting them. Lestrade marveled at the doctor. No matter when he visited him, the man had his slick trim hair set neatly and he didn't look even a bit tired. He was almost in his fifties but his smile and the glint in his eyes were younger than that of Lestrade's. Dr. Gables loved his job. Lestrade noticed a young woman also dressed in a white lab coat standing beside Dr. Gables.

"Evening. Or morning, I don't know which." The doctor said jokingly and the two shook hands over the dead body on the table. Then, he gestured at the young mousy looking girl beside him. "This is Molly Hooper, she's going to be working as my assistant as an intern for a while"

"Nice to meet you Detective Inspector…er"

"Lestrade"

Molly Hooper looked pale and her make-up was thin. Obviously, she had been forced to jump out of bed only a few hours ago, just like Lestrade. Still, she made an effort to flash a smile up at him. He appreciated the young girl's effort. Dr. Gables and Moll Hooper looked like exact opposite. Gables was well past his prime, yet he exposed a jubilant ray of joy and energy. On the other hand, Molly Hooper was so young, yet she looked tired and worried. Then, Lestrade laid his eyes on the body. The lower half was covered in sheets and the body had been thoroughly sliced open and stitched up neatly. There was a long y shaped stitch mark running down along either side of the victim's collar bone, which met up at the chest and ran down straight across the abdomen. At a table behind the two doctors was a sliced up heap of the insides of the victim. Lestrade quickly looked away from the table and turned back to Gables.

"Did you find anything?"

"Well, nothing that impressive but we _did_ find something. Whether it's interesting or not is up to you. I thought I ought to let you know before it's too late." Gables started cautiously. Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"What do you mean?"

"The victim had a serious liver problem and several of his other organs were suffering from minor tissue damages and the sort that you would find in a typical heavy drug addict. We did a thorough check on his blood analysis." Molly Hooper brought a clipboard from the nearby table and handed it to Gables, who flipped it over with a quizzical look.

"So he's a drug addict? Is that it?" Lestrade asked half disappointed.

"No, that's not it." Gables flashed a smile. He handed the clipboard to Lestrade who scanned it. It was a list of substances that they found from the blood analysis. Lestrade didn't recognize even half of its name.

"Alphamethadol, 4-Methyl-aminorex, Naphyrone, and several other opioid and stimulants were found, and from the alarming amount of quantity, it seems that it was taken less than 12 hours before his death. It's a very peculiar mix and not to mention very, very strong. I haven't seen anything like it before." Lestrade shrugged and handed the clipboard back to Gables. The doctor shook his head and refused to receive the list.

"I'm not done yet. You have to understand that this drug is an incredibly unique mix. Either he must have mixed it by himself, or he got it from a particular drug dealer, which is highly unlikely but if true, it must make your job easier to identify the victim." Lestrade nodded.

"What day is it?" Gabels suddenly asked.

"What?" Lestrade frowned. "Um…December 20th."

"Well then, let's just say this is my early Christmas present to you." The doctor said merrily and handed another clipboard to Lestrade.

"Just a few hours ago, we received a request from the drugs directorate to do a blood analysis on a particular young man they caught in a possession of a drug. Here's the analysis of the substance he had in possession and his blood sample." Lestrade gazed down at it and blinked. "All three of them made a perfect match."

Lestrade contacted the drugs directorate and asked for the current whereabouts of this particular young man. They told him he was spending the night at a police station cell only a few minutes away by car. Lestrade immediately climbed into his vehicle and started the engine. The sun was already rising from the horizon. Lestrade wasn't sleepy anymore. He was hyped up with adrenaline. He finally had a lead; something to new to work on.

…

Police Constable Riley was alarmed when he received a call from a Detective Inspector in Homicide and Serious Crime Command. He was asked whether the man they had under custody was currently available to speak with the detective.

"I don't know, Sir. He's been heavily intoxicated but not enough to be sent to the hospital…"

"That's good enough for me. Wake him up, please." The voice said gruffly from the other side and the line went dead. Riley bolted from his chair and hurried to the cell number four. He turned on the lights and peeked into through the barred window. The convict was sitting upright on his bed with his back against the wall. He had his eyes closed.

"Oi, Holmes, get out. Someone wants to see you." The constable called out. The slender man cracked his eyes open and turned his head toward him. He blinked several times and frowned.

"Really, already? Had Mycroft gone soft?"

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading the first chapter :)<em>

_This is my 2nd fan fic. I always wanted to explore what Sherlock must have been like when he first met Lestrade and how he came to be a consulting detective._

_Unlike my 1st fan fic, I wanted to make this more action-packed and realistic. Hope you like it!_

_And sorry if you found any american english in here. I usually speak american english so forgive me for the inaccuracy!_

_I'm also not very familiar with the landscapes of london so you'll have to do with the foggy location description X(_


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson of the Serious and Organized Crime Command received a call on his mobile at dawn. He mumbled and rubbed his eyes as he reached for the bedside table.

"Yeah?"

"It's Jones. Sorry to wake you up but we have an emergency situation." Gregson frowned and sat up. He ran a hand down his fair hair and got ready to climb out of the bed.

"What happened?"

"It's about Fred Porlock." Gregson noticed that Jones's voice was slightly shaking. "I received a call from the surveillance team that he's been missing for the past 12 hours."

"What?" Gregson exclaimed and jumped out of bed. He stumbled towards his dressing closet. "What do you mean, missing?" He demanded as he grabbed a fresh pair of shirt.

"He went out for an evening stroll around four in the afternoon. It wasn't unusual, he does it every day and comes back after half an hour but this time he never came back. We can't contact his mobile phone either."

"Why didn't I hear about this earlier?" He exploded as he pulled on his trousers.

"The team thought he would be back after a while. He does that occasionally. He goes for a stroll, disappears and comes back after several hours saying that he felt like taking longer walks. The team knew that he was saying the truth because they were always tailing him but this time they lost him. They didn't bother to find him. They thought that he would come back again." Gregson swore under his breath. Fred Porlock was a petty thief and a drug addict, who had promised to testify against a lethal drug trafficking member in court. He had gone under a witness protection scheme. There was no reason for Porlock to run away. A lump formed in Gregson's throat.

"The surveillance team's been searching the perimeter for hours but they need reinforcements and so they contacted me." Jones said wearily. "I'm sorry, Sir. I should have known…"

"Take command of the situation until I arrive at office." Gregson ordered briskly and turned off the phone.

…

Detective Inspector Lestrade flipped through the documents that he received from the drugs directory. The local patrol officer found the young man heavily drunk on the road side at midnight that day. They questioned him and found that he was unable to reply properly. They noticed his unnatural behavior and realized that he wasn't a typical drunk. They searched his belongings and found a small plastic bag with an unknown white powdery substance in it. They immediately held him under arrest and escorted him to the nearby police station where he was filed and put in custody. The blood sample and the substance proved to be a mixture of several Class A and Class C drugs. Sherlock Holmes is now waiting to either be bailed out or be sent to court for a trial.

The detective looked up to see a haggard-looking, gaunt man dressed in slim jeans and dark turquois blue open collar shirt enter the interviewing room. His hands were cuffed in front of him. Despite the young man's unstable footing and debilitated state, Lestrade noticed that there was something elegant about his face. Sherlock Holmes had sharp, light blue eyes and a prominent nose. His jaws were closed tightly and his lips were drawn in a straight line. His hair was short, chestnut brown and had a slight curl around the tail and the ears. If Lestrade didn't know better, he would have believed that Sherlock Holmes was an innocent, pampered, Boy Scout charmer. It was the kind of boys that Lestrade never got along with when he was in school. The detective inspector shook the thought away from his head. This man wasn't exactly an innocent Boy Scout. He's been caught using drugs three times already. But he had to admit that the man _was _pampered. Somehow he had managed to get away with the last three charges with just a minor fine. He must have hired a pretty darn good lawyer. That means his parents or something must be backing him up. What a spoiled kid… Sherlock Holmes sat in front of Lestrade, across the small table. Constable Riley hovered at the door before he exited it.

"Would you like something to drink, Sir?" Lestrade turned to Riley and asked for two cups of coffee. Then, he leaned back on his chair and looked at the convict.

"My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade from the Metropolitan Police Service." A crooked smile broke across Holmes's face.

"Ah, the one from the Homicide and Serious Crime Command… What is a serial murder investigator doing here at a time like this? Found a new body, I presume?" Lestrade stared back at bewilderment. At first he was surprised to find the man's voice lower than he had expected. Then, he was taken aback by the elegant manner of his speech, which matched his intelligent facial features perfectly. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes didn't look as young as Lestrade had first seen him. He didn't even dare ask how he knew about the body. Holmes beamed back and widened his smile

"Please, I read the papers, Detective Inspector." He answered gleefully as if he had read his mind. Lestrade opened his mouth but he couldn't find the right words to say. The man's unexpected ostentatious attitude took him by surprise. He was only saved by Riley who had entered the room at the perfect timing and delivered them two cups of steaming hot coffee. The crispy smell wafted in the room and cleared the detective's head up. Lestrade thanked Riley politely and cleared his throat.

"I want to ask you some questions concerning the process of obtaining this drug of yours." He said in a dead pan tone. Holmes reached for the cup with his cuffed hands and raised a brow quizzically at Lestrade. The detective inspector didn't like the gesture at all. It felt as if he was being mocked. Holmes wrapped his long fingers around the cup and dragged it towards him.

"Interesting" There was a momentarily pause before the young man opened his mouth again.

"Either you found a similar batch at a crime scene or it was found in one of the victim's body…judging from your speediness, I assume that it's the latter. And considering the unconventional time of your visit…" Sherlock Holmes lifted the cup carefully with his two hands and sipped the coffee. "You found the body somewhere around 2 to 3 in the morning. Am I right?" Before Lestrade could stop himself, he was nodding with an astonished look on his face. Holmes lowered the cup and leaned back on his chair. He scratched his cheek and sniffed before he bit his lip and furrowed his brow. He gazed at Lestrade with a studying look. Lestrade was simply paralyzed like a rabbit in the headlights.

"That means the body wasn't abandoned indoors. It had to be found somewhere people passed by twenty four seven. Possibly a public restroom..." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No, all bodies in public restrooms so far are found in the time period between 6 to 10 in the evening or late mornings…then where else…" The young man tapped his fingers on the table. Lestrade opened his mouth.

"No don't tell me." Sherlock Holmes said briskly. Lestrade glowered at him.

"I wasn't going to. Look, that's none of your business. I just want to know where you got your drugs." He needed to regain control over this conversation. He had accidently let Sherlock Holmes dominate the rally. Holmes didn't reply for a while. He aligned the tip of his fingers together neatly and drew it up to his chin. "Holmes-"

"Aha, the traffic" Sherlock smiled. Lestrade ignored the remark and pressed on.

"Tell me where-"

"Am I right?"

"You don't need to know."

"But I am right?"

"Look-"

"_Am I?_" Sherlock Holmes demanded and leaned forward.

"_Yes._" Lestrade paused to take a breath. "Now if you don't mind, I would like you to-"

"If you're hoping to identify the victim through the drug dealer, you're up to no luck."

"What, why not?" The moment Lestrade blurted these words out he wanted to slap himself in the head. Sherlock Holmes was flinging him around all over the place, Lestrade was losing grip of his authority. He should have said something like, "That's for me to decide." Or "That's not what I'm implying to do." He couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes was under the influence of drugs at the moment. Didn't Riley say that he was heavily intoxicated? Lestrade ran a hand over his face in frustration.

"Anonymous trade, I never meet the dealers. I leave the money and my request at a particular place and after a few days, I'll find the supply hidden in another different place. We never meet. Besides, there's a hierarchical system among the consumers. The dealers rank us." Lestrade expected Holmes to continue his explanation but the young man didn't say anything. He simply looked back at him, expecting Lestrade to draw his own conclusion. Noticing that the detective inspector was incapable of doing so, the young man sighed and rolled his eyes. Lestrade threw a look of resentment at him.

"The dealers categorize us according to the degree of addiction and financial capability. They are a highly well-organized group and they don't like to end up causing unneeded friction between the consumers and the suppliers. If one of the buyers demands for more quantities of drugs, and yet they are financially incapable of doing so, the dealers refuse to sell them anything. In short, they will only collect money from where they know there is one. No debts, no losses, no risk, and absolute profit. They occasionally assess their clients and when they find out that it's time for them to go, they break all contact with the buyer and let them to rot or become foolishly desperate and steal the supply from somewhere else." Sherlock licked his lips. "Your victim and I probably share different dealers."

"You don't know that for sure. You use the same drug, and this is a very peculiar type."

"Yes, well, about that..." Sherlock shifted in his seat. "You see, I'm not listed very high up in their so called ranks. I'm not a frequent user, and I only buy them in small quantities. My income isn't as hefty as the others either. I'm just a small customer. On the other hand," Lestrade found himself leaning forward with anticipation. Sherlock Holmes smiled contently.

"The latest victim of the serial murder must be a very heavy user and he must have been listed pretty high up." Lestrade tilted his head to one side questionably. How did he know that?

"It's true that he had been a heavy addict but so are you." The detective reminded him. Sherlock Holmes scoffed.

"I'm not really an addict. I only use them when I'm bored." Lestrade didn't really get the difference but he didn't bother to dig into the topic. "Besides, this is the first time I used this mix." He shrugged. "And I regret it. It was too strong for me. I asked for a stronger dose but I didn't expect it to be this strong." He laughed weakly. "It's definitely for people who are more immune to stimulants. I'm sorry but your lead had just evaporated." Lestrade opened his mouth slightly as if to be saying "oh". Lestrade slumped back on his chair and gulped down the now cold coffee. He didn't like Sherlock Holmes. Not one bit. Not only did he take Lestrade by surprise, and pelt him with unneeded exchange of conversation, and he also delivered him very disappointing news; another dead end.

"Unless…" The boyish man said hesitantly.

"What?" Lestrade demanded. He didn't bother trying to act professional anymore. It was too late for that.

"I can direct you to its dealer."

"I thought you just said that you never met the dealers."

"Yes but that doesn't mean I can't." Sherlock Holmes flashed a malicious smile at Lestrade.


	3. Chapter 3

Porlock found himself shivering violently from fear and the cold. He can see his breath turn into white wisps in front of him. He couldn't see well in the dark but he was in an empty room with white walls and wooden flooring. There was a window behind him. It was a normal house, except the furniture was missing and it was agonizingly cold. There was a cream colored door right in front of him but the door knob was missing and it was bolted shut from the outside. Porlock's hands were chained behind his back and the chains were firmly attached to the wall. Porlock was forced to sit cross-legged on the cold hard floor. The sole of his foot ached with icy prickliness.

After a while, he heard footsteps from outside the door. Porlock held his breath. He heard the bolt sliding. A whimper leaked from his mouth. He clenched his teeth to keep from chattering but it didn't work. The door cracked open and warm orange light leaked in. A pair or brown boots crept in. Through the narrow crack of the door, Porlock saw a fireplace. It looked so warm and comforting.

"Please…don't k-kill me." He stuttered. Tears welled up in his eyes. The figure slipped into the room. He didn't even bother to close the door behind him. It was wide agape. Porlock tugged at the chains, desperate to break free. "I didn't mean to…I'm sorry, I'll keep m-my mouth shut." The figure towered in front of him and cast a looming shadow over Porlock. "I didn't say y-your name I swear, I only-" The figure crouched down in front of him. At first Porlock was too afraid to meet the monster's eyes. He couldn't get himself to confront his assaulter. Tear drops ran freely down his cheeks.

"What are you talking about?" A voice said in a low grumble. Porlock froze at the spot. He gazed up at the figure hesitantly. His eyes widened with surprise.

"You're not h-here to…? I mean, I thought you worked f-for- who are you?" Porlock blurted. He couldn't see the man's face. The light from the fireplace was too bright and he could only see the outline of his figure.

"I'm a nobody."

…

Lestrade strode out of the interviewing room briskly and slammed the door behind him, leaving the young cheeky man at his seat. Riley was awaiting him outside.

"I'm done. Thanks for the time." Riley nodded and escorted the detective inspector outside. When the officer returned to the interviewing room to collect Sherlock Holmes, he found the convict chuckling to himself buoyantly. He turned to Riley and gave a toothy grin. There was a half-deranged manic glint in his eyes that made Riley hesitate at the door before approaching him. It was as if he was high again.

Lestrade drove his car aggressively to the New Scotland Yard and as soon as he sat in front of his table, he slumped across it with sheer exhaustion. He thought he had something. He knew that he was going to make a breakthrough but Sherlock Holmes blew his anticipation to smithereens. It was early in the morning and the office was only a third full. He saw a couple of people from organized crime division run down the corridor hurriedly but the usual bustle hadn't started yet. Lestrade wondered if he had made the right choice. He had refused Sherlock Holmes's bizarre offer. Holmes was a frighteningly perspicacious man that's for sure. But he was a completely mad junkie, and a civilian. Lestrade sighed. He'll have to identify the body like the other past 5 cases. He'll have to question for any witnesses, search the missing people list, and the sort. He hated having to waste his time like this. As he was running around trying to find out the name of this dead man, another person was getting tortured and killed by this crazy maniac. Lestrade pulled out the past few case files and flipped through them. All the victims suffered the same injuries. The gashes behind the knees, back, several bruises, a bruised neck, which look like it was strangled by a plastic rope, a scraped knee and elbow, and several parts of their wrist, waist, and stomach had been skinned in an artistic pattern. Some were patterns of an animal like a bird or cat, others strange symbols and patterns such as a long chain of triangles or something that looked like a fancy flower mark. All of it reminded Lestrade of a tattoo art. One of the officers in Lestrade's investigation team was searching for any kind of link of meaning between the symbols but Lestrade doubted there were any. _It's a mad man's work, who would understand any of it? It's just a muddle of randomly selected symbols. _

There was another curious thing about the bodies. The substance in their digestive system was all same. They were mostly bread and oat meal. This means that the killer fed the same thing to all of his victims. Lestrade had hoped he could find something to narrow down the target but it turns out that there was nothing that wasn't sold in a typical supermarket. The bodies were found in different time at different places. Two were found in public restrooms, one in the corner of a park, another in a vacant warehouse, one in an alleyway, and the latest one was abandoned boldly in the middle of the street. All bodies were scattered all over the city, near the victim's residence. It makes it harder to grasp the killer's true whereabouts. It was as if he was everywhere. Lestrade looked at the calendar on the wall. His early Christmas present from Gables had evaporated as if it never existed. Just then, Lestrade bolted up right in his seat. Shit, he almost forgot to buy his wife a Christmas present. In fact, he almost forgot about the holiday itself.

…

Porlock's only way of keeping track of time was from the lights that leaked through the window above his head. It was midday He closed his eyes to rest. He stretched his legs so that his ankles would touch the sunlight. The faint warmth was far from fulfilling but it was reassuring. He was suffering from slight hypothermia. He was hungry, weak, and above all, confused. He wondered what the anonymous man was going to do to him. If he wasn't working for Carter, what did he want? Why was he here? What was the surveillance team doing? Didn't the police promise his safety in exchange of his information an testimoy? Just when he was about to doze off, the floorboard outside the door creaked and he heard the bolt slide again. The familiar pair of boots entered the room. Porlock started at the feet as it lazily dwindled towards him. He raised his eyes to see the man. This time, he could see his face clearly. It was a tall man with broad shoulders, dressed in a dark long sleeves and jeans. His light colored hair was cropped short and his eyes were dark brown. The face showed no expression. He held a bowl in one hand. Porlock couldn't see what was inside it but he could see the steam wafting from the surface. His mouth watered. The man crouched down in front of him and offered him a spoonful of oatmeal. He blew at it lightly and carefully carried it to Porlock's mouth. The captive took a bite without hesitation. The two locked eyes the whole time. Porlock's wavered with fear and confusion. The mysterious man didn't show any sign of emotions. He just fed him silently. It was one of the strangest moments in Porlock's life. Did he want to hurt him or take care of him? Did this mysterious man want him dead or alive? When the bowl was nearly emptied, a faint scream echoed from outside the door. The man's hand froze. Porlock stopped chewing and he strained his eyes at the door. "What was that?" He wanted to ask but he couldn't. The already ice cold room felt as if it just got even colder. Porlock started to shiver again as he saw the man's face. The man was smiling coldly back at him with glinting eyes.

…

It wasn't until mid-day when Sherlock was finally bailed out. Anthea was standing beside the black polished car. She opened the back door for him as he clambered out of the police station. Constable Riley seemed to be relieved of getting rid of Sherlock. He shoved his coat at the gaunt man and nodded at Anthea.

"Have a nice day." He said in a businesslike tone and watched as Sherlock hopped into the expensive-looking car. Anthea climbed after Sherlock and sat beside him without a word. She had her phone to her ear and handed it to Sherlock as soon as the car took off.

"Your brother would like to have a word with you." She said bluntly. Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the phone reluctantly. Before he could greet him, Mycroft blurted,

"For god's sake, Sherlock, enough is enough!" Sherlock didn't say anything. He just looked out the car window with a bored look on his face. "Do have any idea how sad Mummy would be when she hears about this?" Sherlock sighed.

"Not as sad as when you sent troops to Iraq and Afghanistan, obviously." He murmured. There was a short, aggravated gawking noise from the other side of the line.

"I am serious Sherlock. I am only in a minor position in the British government. I can't keep covering for you like this. Sooner or later you will have to face your charges fully. Mummy and I are seriously considering of a rehabilitation program for you to-" Sherlock started to pull the phone away from his ear when Mycroft yelled, "I'M NOT DONE YET, SHERLOCK HOLMES!" as if he had read his mind. Sherlock grimaced and lifted the phone up to his ear again.

"There's no need for you two to worry about me. I have everything under control. I don't need any rehabilitation."

"Well then at least get yourself a bloody job! What do you do all day anyway? I thought you had a temporary job, why did you quit?" Sherlock scowled.

"Still snooping on me?"

"And I will continue until you settle down." Mycroft spat.

"I _have _a job."

"What."

"I quit my last one and started my own business a few weeks ago. It was the right thing to do. I just couldn't stand the daily routine jobs. " There was a moment of silence.

"You're not really thinking of becoming a pirate are you?" The elder brother asked hesitantly.

"Mycroft that was years ago." Sherlock glowered. "I opened a business as a private detective."

"WHAT?"

"You heard what I said."

"Sherlock…you can't be serious. What in the world are you planning to do? How are you supposed to make a living out of that?" Mycroft whined. Sherlock blinked.

"I've already had some clients. I also have some savings from my last job. It'll last until I get a steady business. In the meantime, I could share flat to cut down the expenses." He explained mechanically.

"_Who in the world will have you as a flat mate?" _Mycroft exclaimed.

"There's always someone desperate enough." Sherlock shrugged. Mycroft let a large sigh.

"Fine, but you'll have to explain that properly to Mummy at Christmas dinner. Speaking of which, _don't forget it this time._"

"Forget what?"

"THE DINNER." The line went dead. Sherlock remembered last year when he had completely forgotten to visit Holmes Manor because he was too preoccupied with one of his experiments. Mycroft came barging into his flat late afternoon that day and dragged him out to his old house for an unpleasant family reunion. If Sherlock could come up with a convincing excuse he wouldn't have hesitated to use it, but Mycroft's snooping kept Sherlock almost impossible to avoid the event. He handed the phone back to Anthea. Oh goodness, he had to buy _presents_. But before that, he needed to drop by somewhere to buy a pack of cigarettes.

...

Lestrade held an investigation meeting that morning. He looked completely worn down but he wanted to hear what everyone had managed to gather so far. The results weren't very happy. The forensics was hopeless. It was no surprise. Nothing in the street was found that could track down the killer. The autopsy report showed nothing in particular and the only lead they had had been eliminated by Lestrade's investigation. No prints or dental records matched. They did a thorough check on the recent missing people list but nothing that would match the victim was found. This meant that the victim lived alone and rarely had social contact. Lestrade scratched his chin. _Where was his workplace? _Lestrade massaged his eyelids. He needed to sleep. He briskly told everyone to resume their investigation and dismissed the meeting. As he strode out of the building and toward the parking lot, he stuck his hands into his coat pocket to brace himself against the December chill. He frowned. He noticed an unfamiliar piece of paper in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was neatly folded into half. It said,

_In case you changed your mind – SH_

Lestrade opened the paper hesitantly. A phone number was scribbled on it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock's lips curved into a complacent smile as he listened to the words from the other line. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Sure, I can get the name in a day" A moment of pause. "Well, I'm not the common wealth." He shrugged. He dropped the cigarette stub to the ground and crushed it with his foot. "I'll call you when I have the name. Oh, and I need a facial photograph of the victim. I'd be happy if you sent it to my email."

…

William lifted his coat collar up against the icy gust of wind as he ducked into the building. It was an old flat with cracks and stains but few people lived here and the other rooms were seldom occupied. He trotted up the dimly lit stairs and stuck a key to his door. William had lived in better places before but didn't mind living here. Despite the downgrade of his lifestyle, his salary has risen fashionably. He pulled out the key and opened the door. He slipped in and reached for the lights. When he flicked it on, he yelped. There, in the middle of the sitting room, stood a tall salient man dressed in a long coat.

"Evening" The intruder's eyes glinted malignantly. William took a step back. The man smiled at him but his eyes weren't laughing. "Please, have a seat." He gestured toward the tattered couch as if this was his own house. William obeyed. His heart pounded. What did the man want? Was he a cop? The enigmatic infiltrator clasped his hands behind his back and gazed down at the confused man.

"It's quite a stock you have in there." He nudged his chin toward the kitchen. William's heart sank. _Hell, he knows…_ "I wouldn't recommend stuffing that into the wall. I easily found the fresh patch of paint and all I needed to do was tap over it to confirm." The young man shook his head. "Too obvious."

"What do you want?" William growled and slowly slid his hand to the crack behind the couch cushion. He kept an extra handgun there just in case.

"If you're looking for your Browning, I have it here with me." The voice said merrily and the man pulled out William's handgun from his pocket and weighed it in his right hand. He smirked. "A cute gun for a drug gangster, don't you think?" William bit the inside of his cheek. His other gun was in his car outside. The man emptied the magazine and threw it back to William. Then, he paced around the room, scanned the area, and then his sharp grey-blue eyes landed back to William. The gaze was as if it was trying to penetrate a hole through William's chest. He squirmed in his seat. The man was way younger than him, and he didn't look like a criminal but there was something discomforting about the man. It was as if he knew everything about William.

"You're new here, aren't you?" The man said in a low, satisfied growl.

"What?"

"You were assigned to this post just a week or two ago. Where's the last guy?"

"He's not here."

"I can see that." The man stared down at William for what felt like an eternity before he broke his eye contact and stuck his hand into his inner pocket. He pulled out a photograph and showed it to William. "Do you know who he is?" William enlarged his eyes as he marveled at the man's photograph. He flicked his eyes up to the man nervously.

"Where you sent by Mr. Carter?" There was a moment of silence.

"Yes." The slender man finally answered.

"Are you here to threaten me? If you think I'm-"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want to find out where he lived." William licked his lips and nodded.

"Well, sir, you came to the god damn right spot then."

…

Lestrade's mouth hung wide open when he received the call from Sherlock Holmes the next morning. He couldn't believe that Holmes managed to do his job so quickly. He thought the junkie was just exaggerating when he said that he could provide Lestrade with the body's name in one day.

"I got it." The baritone voice said bluntly.

"You're kidding me."

"It was easy. But you shouldn't be surprised with that. There's something else."

"What?"

"I'm coming to your office." Before Lestrade could reply, the line went dead. Lestrade slumped back in his chair and shook his head. He flipped through the file he received from the drugs directorate last night. Who in the world was this Sherlock Holmes person? There was a blank space under the column occupation, but he was too old to be a student. Could it be that he was a corrupt solicitor trainee or perhaps some kind of a rookie journalist with bad narcotics habits?

After fifteen minutes or so, Lestrade received a call from the front desk saying that there was a visitor who wanted to see him. Lestrade sighed and allowed him in. His feelings lifted a little when he saw a trimly dressed man approach his office. Sherlock Holmes looked nothing like the bedraggled man Lestrade had met yesterday. Although Holmes was still pale, he looked healthier and fit. He was dressed in a crisp pair of shirt and his hair wasn't disheveled. His strides were confident and swift. It was almost hard to believe that he was a junkie. _I'd go with the solicitor theory. _Lestrade sized Holmes up in his head. He opened his office door and beckoned Holmes inside before any of his investigation team witnessed the unfamiliar visitor. Lestrade gestured Holmes to sit in front of his desk. Holmes obliged.

"Well?" Lestrade said as soon as he took a seat. "Surprise me." Holmes placed a memo in front of him.

"That's the address of his residence. And his name is John Douglass. His occupation…" Holmes cleared his throat. "Is a small time drug dealer." Lestrade flung his gaze from the memo to the man's face.

"What?" Sherlock shrugged.

"He's not a customer. He ran away with a couple of kilos of the supply and disappeared about two weeks ago. The whole branch took a big blow. They lost a lot of money. Apparently, those higher up in charge decided to go on a man-hunt for Douglas but they couldn't find him. A different man called William Dale has been assigned as a new dealer and he's currently living where Douglas used to. He thought I was one of the messengers sent by this man called _Mr. Carter, _to warn him not to smuggle drugs like his predecessor. I showed him that photo you gave me and he got shaken up quite badly."

"Jesus…how did you even find him?" Lestrade gaped.

"Easy, I went to my usual 'payment area' and placed ten times the usual amount of money and a note asking for more of these mixes that I bought from them earlier that day…you know, the one I was caught in possession of. I knew that my dealer didn't have the stock. He handles minor cocaine consumers like me." Sherlock paused with a blank expression on his face. Lestrade winced.

"You are aware that cocaine is illegal… and you're talking to a police officer right now?" Sherlock shrugged carelessly and opened his mouth to continue his explanation.

"I knew that as soon as my dealer receives the money and the note, he would contact a different dealer who had enough stock to share it with him. All I had to do was tail the man and wait for him to make contact with our target. That was the tricky part. I had my homeless network to back me up with that."

"What's that?" Holmes shrugged again.

"A group of homeless people I hire to gather information from time to time." Lestrade wanted to ask what kind of occasion would he need homeless people to do that but he dropped the topic.

"And where exactly is this 'payment area'?" Lestrade asked slowly. Sherlock smirked.

"I'm not telling you that."

"It's illegal."

"But if it weren't for it you would be sulking around at the mall now, looking for a Christmas present for your wife instead of sitting here with a name and an address."

"How did you-" Lestrade closed his mouth and shook his head. He wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes foray the conversation again. He bit his lip and looked down at the memo. Sherlock Holmes was right. He got the identity of the victim, hooray, but now what? It seemed like another dead end. A drug dealer, who happened to be on the run, happened to be the next victim of a mad killing spree. Sherlock smiled smugly. The man had tied something together that Lestrade hadn't. His irritation bubbled up again. Sherlock titled his head to the right and shifted his eyes to the side.

"If I were you, I would play your cards close to the chest. Detective Inspector Gregson's may come barging into your office an time." Sherlock noticed Lestrade's shoulder tense.

"Ah," He said with a mildly pleased tone. "Rivalry is it?" He chuckled. He scanned Lestrade's office swiftly and licked his lips.

"You and Detective Inspector Gregson graduated the police academy in the same year, yet he was promoted to a Detective Inspector earlier than you. Am I right?" Without waiting for Lestrade to reply, words started to spill out of Sherlock's mouth.

"And this is your first big case as a supreme officer and you want to solve it as soon as possible. You're used to brutal murders and you consider yourself experienced. You don't like to just _solve _a case. You want to conduct your investigations so that it would be executed swiftly and end quickly. However you aren't exactly a hasty type. In fact, I can tell from the state of your shoelaces and the way you align those files," He indicated the case files neatly placed on his desktop "that you are a persistent person that likes to keep things tidy and organized. You have the patience if you need it but when it comes to solving cases, it's a different matter. Efficiency is as important as closing a case. You want to make up for the time you lost and catch up with Gregson as soon as possible." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Lestrade just stared back at Sherlock with an incredulous look.

"Then there's your recent marriage. Yes, I know it's recent because there's a slightly thin line about your wedding ring. You're engagement ring must have been smaller and stopped right about where your current ring is. I say married for hmm…four months by the state of the tan around the ring mark. You haven't talked to her for two days. You leave early and come home late. By the way, one of her ex-boyfriend is a PE teacher. I'd look out for him if I were you." Lestrade pushed his chair slightly away from his desk.

"That was freaky…"He breathed.

"I get that a lot."

"What are you, a stalker, a hacker, or a psychic? How did you know?"

"I didn't _know_. I saw it. And I also saw that on the way to your office, the Serious Crime and Organized Crime Command were in a bit of a hustle bustle. They're investigating after Samuel Carter, aren't they? Mr. _Carter_? Ring any bells?"

Lestrade's mouth slightly opened.

"As soon as he hears that one of Carter's men has been found dead, he would demand you to show him the investigation report. A friendly warning." Sherlock smiled. Just then, there was a knock on the door. Lestrade braced himself. He thought it was Gregson but it was Sergeant Donovan.

"Sir," She peeked inside. Her eyes briefly stopped at Sherlock's before she turned her attention back to Lestrade. "I'm sorry for interrupting but we found another body." Lestrade sprung to his feet. So did Sherlock. Lestrade followed Donovan out the door but he was stopped by Sherlock, who grasped him by the arm.

"I'm coming with you." He said as-a-matter-of-factly.

"What? No!" Lestrade tried to break away but Sherlock's tightened his grip.

"It might be another drug addict. If it is, you might need to again." Lestrade shook his head.

"You're a civilian, not a cop." Lestrade declared. But the young man gazed back at him firmly. Lestrade felt slightly intimidated by the determined expression. He sighed. "Look, I appreciate your help but you did enough. I thank you for that, but I can't let a civilian into a crime scene."

"Then consult me."

"What?"

"Investigation teams occasionally consult civilians with various field of profession. Like a criminal psychologist or criminologists." Sherlock reasoned calmly. Lestrade scrunched his face up.

"But you're neither."

"I'm a private detective." Lestrade widened his eyes and laughed.

"You?" Sherlock didn't change his expression. Lestrade's smile vanished. A few moments ago Sherlock Holmes had just shown him a demonstration of his strange profiling skills. He had to admit that the aberrant chap had some keen-edged observation skill.

"Besides," Sherlock said in a suppressed voice. "You might need an extra pawn or two like me if Gregson comes into the picture. Won't you?" Lestrade nodded numbly after a few seconds of consideration.

"Fine, you come with me but do not say anything to anyone about how you got the name for me. You understand? You are to join the crime scene today as a _special profiler._"

* * *

><p><em>*Thanks for the review guys! I really appreciate it :) <em>

_I'm planning on making the next few chapters a little more action-based_

_ ...and a bit of this and that with Sherlock and Anderson and then Sherlock's introduction to Molly Hooper!_


	5. Chapter 5

"A bloody garbage dump…" Anderson breathed with disgust as he watched the crime scene from a few paces back. He shook his head and folded his arms. As a forensics specialist, Anderson had grown accustomed to brutal deaths but he never could comprehend what made people do such a horrid thing in the first place. He understood the situation, but never the mechanism or the twisted psychology of it. Nor did he ever want to.

The body was that of a woman, probably in her thirties. She was found naked and scarred just like the others, but this time, the body was discarded ruthlessly in a garbage bin. Anderson turned to quickly describe the situation to Detective Inspector Lestrade when an unfamiliar man dressed in a long coat climbed out along with him from their vehicle. The sergeant hesitantly approached the two men.

"Sir," he began as he eyed the stranger curiously. Lestrade noticed this and gestured at the tall young man.

"Sherlock, this is Sergeant Anderson from the forensics team, Anderson, this is Sherlock Holmes. He will be assisting our investigation as a special profiler." Anderson widened his eyes. Special profiler? He's never heard of such a vague term other than in movies. The man seemed so young and inexperienced, not to mention fatigued. Anderson hid his bewilderment as much as possible and held out a hand toward the guest.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes." The taller man flashed a casual smile at him but his eyes weren't smiling.

"Please, call me Sherlock." Anderson he slowly turned to Lestrade.

"It's the usual traits, presumed to be dead for about 12 hours, no identification…" he started but his speech was distracted by Sherlock Holmes, who drifted toward the crime scene without listening to Anderson's description. Lestrade's attention also swerved to the slender man. Sherlock Holmes crouched at the foot of the bin and pulled out a portable magnifying glass from his pocket. He peeked into the bin and scrunched up his nose. Anderson gazed at him in silence. He had never seen anyone analyze the scene in such an analogue manner. What could anyone find that the forensics couldn't with a pair of naked eyes, a scrunched-up nose and a small magnifying glass? He stared at the ridiculous man for a moment and then returned his gaze back at Lestrade, who seemed to be equally puzzled by Sherlock Holmes' attentive inspection of whatever it was he was examining right now. Anderson wanted to ask Lestrade where in the world he had recruited such an amateur. Sherlock was closing in on the victim now in a body bag. He opened it without hesitation. Anderson scratched his forehead in irritation.

Suddenly, Sherlock snapped back towards them with a peculiar glint in his eyes.

"Found anything?" Anderson asked in a skeptical tone. Sherlock scanned his surroundings again with one flourish, which made the tail of his coat swing.

"I guess…one or two." He said mischievously.

"Care to share it?" Lestrade asked as he stuck his hands into his pocket. Anderson sensed that the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and Lestrade was not a very formal one. There was a sense of casualty in Lestrade's tone that Anderson had never heard before. Sherlock Holmes twisted his lips into a half pout, as if to be contemplating hard on something. Anderson folded his arms. He doubted Sherlock Holmes could provide anything new to him.

"Why a rubbish bin?" He asked spontaneously at the two. Lestrade and Anderson exchanged befuddled glances.

"What do you mean?" The detective inspector asked.

"Why did the killer throw it away?"

"Uh…because it's going to decompose?" Anderson suggested in a cold tone. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, I didn't mean _that_. I mean look at the way he marks his prize. Surely, no one would throw a masterpiece like that away in the dump." Lestrade's brows twitched as he tried to comprehend what the special profiler was saying to him.

"I'm sorry…what masterpiece?" Anderson asked uneasily.

"I'm talking about the body, of course! I mean, look at the way the killer carefully handled it. He fed them, kept them clean and healthy, bruised and scarred thoroughly, and strangled them…I've never seen anything so precise." Sherlock breathed and shook his head almost as if he was in awe. "He definitely poured all his attention and time into this. I can tell that he loves his work very much. It's a state-of-the-art stuff. Now why would he throw them away like this all of the sudden?" Sherlock paused and stared hard at the rubbish bin as he contemplated several possible explanations to it.

"Are we talking about the same thing? Because that's a body lying there in case you haven't noticed." The forensics officer shifted in his foot uncomfortably. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"So? She's dead, end of story." The two younger men glared at each other for a few seconds as Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Look Sherlock, we all know that the killer keeps their skin as a memorandum. Surely the body is of no great value to him then, isn't it? What's the point of circling around such a small detail? The killer's a crazy. And _that _is the end of story." Sherlock whirled at the detective inspector.

"Wrong, the smallest details are usually the most important. _And _the killer may be a crazy but he's not a stupid. I mean look at the way he expertly handles all these bodies! He knows what he's doing. He strips them of everything. He even cleans the body before throwing them away. No wonder you guys are so slow with identifications." Then, Sherlock scowled at Anderson, who huffed back at him offended.

"So my question is, why dump it? He loves the bodies; it's too gorgeous for him to just dump it out here randomly. _Why?_" Lestrade shrugged awkwardly. He was starting to regret letting Sherlock into the crime scene. The young man was burdening them with trivial matters when they were supposed to be identifying the body. Lestrade shrugged and sighed.

"No idea." Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but before he could utter a single word, Lestrade broke in. "And right now, we should be paying more attention to the bigger picture." Sherlock saw Anderson nodding in agreement from behind Lestrade.

"Like what?"

"Like finding out who she is and where she lives and notice her family and friends." Sherlock snorted in disinterest. Then he narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin up provokingly.

"Very well then, you want to know where she lives." He suddenly started. "Then I'll tell you where she lives." He abruptly pointed to his right. "She lives in that direction, within the range of approximately 2 kilometers radius. You could start you questioning from there." There was a moment of silence as the two officers tried to follow what in the world Sherlock was saying all of the sudden. It was Anderson who broke the silence.

"Okay….how do you know that?"

"I didn't _know_. I saw it. As a matter of fact, I literally saw her before at the supermarket just down this street. She lives somewhere around here."

…

Sherlock smoked idly by the car as he watched Anderson and Lestrade approach the front door of the Woods resident. As he blew smoke, he noticed Mrs. Woods open the front door. A moment of curiosity and confusion flashed across her face. Then, as Sherlock expected, the woman started shaking her head and covered her face with her hands. Mr. Woods emerged from the back of the house to see what the commotion was all about. He hugged his wife closely and his head sunk. Lestrade bowed his head and turned back toward the car. Anderson escorted the two elderly couple to his car as the detective inspector approached Sherlock with a grim expression. Sherlock dropped the cigarette but to the ground and stamped on it carelessly. The two climbed back into the car without a word.

"They took it rather harder than I expected." Sherlock remarked as Lestrade turned on the engine.

"What do you mean _harder_? They just lost their only daughter." Lestrade growled as tailed right behind Anderson's cruiser. Sherlock and Lestrade can see Mr. and Mrs. Woods huddled in the back seat. Sherlock clucked his tongue carelessly and looked out the window.

"Dull." Lestrade wanted to say something at Sherlock but he bit the inside of his cheeks and decided not to say anything the rest of the way through the ride.

...

Sherlock flipped through the autopsy file of the previous victims as he waited for Lestrade and Anderson to finish explaining the matter to Mr. and Mrs. Woods. He was sitting in the hospital lounge, close to the autopsy room. All the victims were carefully branded. Sherlock smiled to himself. He liked this killer. Sherlock can see that he loved his work. And a lover type is always careful not to be caught because once caught, you wouldn't be able to continue your hobby anymore. It made the case all the more challenging for Sherlock. The problem was how would he persuade Lestrade to keep Sherlock in the investigation team? Unfortunately, for Sherlock, the victim had no connection with the previous victim in any way whatsoever and the victim was easily identified. Now what? He placed the files on the table and drummed his fingers against his chin. It was almost lunch time and the doctors and nurses were flooding into the lounge to grab a quick lunch. He checked his watch and wondered when Lestrade will finish with the comforting and all the other mushy business. Then, he gathered the files and decided to head for the smoking area. Just as he stood up, a small figure collided into him from the back. Sherlock whipped around to see a young woman dressed in a lab coat.

"Oh, I'm sorry." He said politely but the girl was blabbering hastily.

"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to. I wasn't paying attention to- you don't need to apologize really it's my fault, are you okay?" Sherlock frowned. The mousy looking girl looked as if she was in a half panic. He held up his hand reassuringly.

"It's okay," He looked at the name tag on her chest. "Dr. Hooper." He added. The girl suddenly blushed as she looked up at him.

"Oh, um…" She coughed into her fist and straightened the creases in her lab coat up. "Er, thank you. Um…well, no one's called me a doctor before." She smiled wearily. Sherlock frowned. He was slightly annoyed. Surely his deductions could not have been mistaken. It says nice and clearly on her name tag that she was a doctor.

"Why, are you not one?" he asked. The girl shifted from one foot to another uncertainly.

"Well, I am…sort of. I'm an intern here at the hospital…well I'm in charge of post-mortems so…yeah, none of my 'patients' are alive to call me a doctor." Sherlock cocked his head to one side._ Yes, that made perfect sense…_

"I see…" He murmured. Dr. Hooper flashed an awkward smile and stepped to the side.

"Well, um, I'd better be going." She said and started to walk past Sherlock when an idea clicked inside the private detective's head.

"Wait," He called out after her. Hooper jumped a little and turned back toward Sherlock with a half-frightened look. "Do you do forensic pathology then?" The intern blinked.

"Yes…actually, that's my expertise." A smile broke across Sherlock's face. He strode toward the doctor and held out a hand.

"I'm Detective Siegerson from the Metropolitan Police Service. I just came here in place of Detective Inspector Lestrade to receive an autopsy report on a case he's been working on?"

"Oh!" Sherlock's lips curved upward. There was a hint of recognition in her eyes. She knew Lestrade. _Bingo._ "I'm sorry, you haven't received it yet?" Sherlock shook his head. "I'm really sorry, Detective. It must have completely slipped out of my head." Sherlock marveled at the girl. If she was in charge of handing the reports to the police, she should remember that she had unmistakably handed the reports to Anderson just a few hours ago. Yet she was blaming herself for the slip and completely believed Sherlock's lie that the report had not yet reached Lestrade. Either she was a really dull girl or a frighteningly naïve one.

"Please, wait right here. I'll go get it right away." Sherlock nodded.

"I'd appreciate that. Thank you Dr. Hooper." The girl blushed again.

"Please, call me Molly." Then, she dashed off out of the lounge and toward the corridor. Sherlock sat back in his chair and tapped his long fingers against the table. _Molly Hooper…what an interesting girl. _

The intern dashed back toward Sherlock, hugging the report closely to her chest. She must have sprinted all the way down the corridor and back because she was panting rather heavily and her face was completely blushed. Sherlock thanked her politely and checked the front page of the report. Yes, it was exactly the one he wanted; the autopsy report on Margret Woods.

"I'm really sorry about the inconvenience." She panted. "I'll make sure it won't happen again."

"It's no problem." Sherlock shrugged. He eyed Molly Hooper curiously. He contemplated what else she could do for him. Then, he wondered how long Lestrade was going to keep him waiting. "Say," He started. "Would you like to have a drink?"

Molly blinked incredulously at Sherlock. The young man slightly furrowed his brow. He had just afforded her a drink because she looked completely exhausted from the trip across the hospital, but Molly Hooper looked as if she was struck by lightning.

"Erm," She bit her lip and after a short pause she replied, "Sure." Although she had caught her breath quite a while ago, her face was still pink. Sherlock shrugged and gestured at the chair in front of him. "Oh," She said faintly and took a sat across him.

"Coffee?" Sherlock asked casually as he stood up from his seat and turned toward the espresso machine. Molly nodded.

"Yes, thank you."

"Sugar and milk?"

"Er, no thank you." She flashed a polite smile at him. Sherlock strode toward the machine and served a cup of coffee for Molly and another for himself with sugar in it. As he came back to the table, he noticed Molly nervously eyeing the pile of files that Sherlock had left on the table along with the newly received report.

"It's the third one this month." Sherlock began causally as he sat back in his chair and handed the cup the Molly.

"Any sign of a breakthrough?" Molly asked. Her voice slightly shook from nervousness. Sherlock leaned back on his chair and let out a sigh.

"Ah, no, nothing so far." He tried to make his tone sound as disappointed as possible. Molly's face dropped.

"Oh."

"So, how long have you been an intern here?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, I just started a few months ago."

"A few months?" Molly nodded. Sherlock studied Molly for a while. The girl squirmed uncomfortably under his intense gaze. Finally, he gestured at the files in front of him.

"Then, you executed some of these autopsies?"

"I only stood by them. It's Dr. Gables, who was in charge." Sherlock nodded.

"All of them?" Molly nodded back. Sherlock drew his cup to his mouth to try to conceal the pleasant smile. What a coincidence this was. "So that means you and Dr. Gables examined the Margaret Wood case too." Molly nodded again. "Perfect." He muttered to himself. Molly looked at him curiously.

"Did you find anything unusual? I guess I could find it out myself by reading your reports but…speaking directly to you is a lot quicker."

"Oh, right," Molly straightened up in her seat and cleared her throat. "Well, we couldn't find much. It was just like all the others…but…" She licked her lips and lowered her gaze.

"Yes?" Sherlock pressed on.

"…She was pregnant. 4 weeks old." Sherlock frowned.

"Oh, I see." He muttered and sipped his coffee. His tone dropped and to Molly, it must have sounded as if Sherlock was disappointed about the unfortunate news but in truth, Sherlock was disappointed more because the news didn't really interest him. Sherlock drummed his fingers again. He really wanted to smoke now. This was getting nowhere. Just waiting like this wasn't his style. He wanted to go back to Lestrade's office as soon as possible and read all the case reports. Not just the autopsy reports.

"Are you all right?" Molly asked cautiously. Sherlock snapped back from his thoughts and turned to Molly.

"Yes, I'm fine." He said with a faint smile.

"I bet it's really hard." Molly began with a sympathetic tone.

"Hm?"

"The investigation, I mean. I bet you have to be tough to keep up with all the load work and stuff." Sherlock shrugged.

"Being tough isn't enough. You have to be sharp too."

"Oh, I see." Molly nodded and eyes Sherlock shyly. Sherlock stared right back at her with a cool complexion. Molly blinked several times. Her face turned into a darker shade of pink. She cleared her throat and looked at her watch. "Oh, I've gotta go now." She let out a nervous laugh. "It was nice to meet you, Detective Siegerson." She stood up. Sherlock winked at the doctor and said suavly,

"Nice to meet you too. Hope we can meet again soon." Molly's shoulders tensed. "I might need your help again." Sherlock added coolly. Molly Hopper smiled, turned sharply on her feet and hastily shuffled out the lounge. Once Sherlock watched her disappear around the corner, he stood up urgently and hurried toward the smoking area. He was gasping for smoke.

…

Just when Sherlock was about to light his second cigarette, Lestrade strode into the smoking area.

"Is it okay if I have one? My pack's empty." The Detective Inspector asked. Sherlock stuck his hand in his coat pocket and drew out a pack and offered it to Lestrade, who plucked a roll and placed it in between it lips. The two flicked their lighters simultaneously and lit their cigarettes up.

"What did they say?"

"They were half expecting the news." Lestrade sighed heavily. "She went missing two weeks ago."

"…And she became pregnant four weeks ago." Sherlock muttered. Lestrade frowned and turned to the younger man.

"How did you know that?" Sherlock merely shrugged in response. He decided not to tell Lestrade about his encounter with Molly Hooper. Lestrade exhaled deeply. "I still don't understand how you do that, Sherlock." Sherlock smirked.

"Science of deduction. It's a useful skill if you're working in the police."

"But you're not."

"Ah, well" Sherlock took a long drag before he uttered, "and yet here I am." The two stood in silence for a while before Lestrade asked,

"What were you doing before you started working as a PI?"

"A bit of this and that." Sherlock answered vaguely. "I worked in a bank once. Did a year in the European Union embassy too. Then after that, I did a bit of legal assistant work here and there. Didn't last much. I never liked the job. Too dull." Lestrade laughed at this.

"Some people work their arses off the get that kind of position." Sherlock extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Waste of time." Sherlock muttered grimly. Lestrade studied the private detective. Sherlock Holmes was one strange man.

"So you think being a private investigator's more exciting?"

"It depends on the case. I only take the interesting cases. Unlike my previous occupations, I get to choose what I want to do. It's more fun that way." Lestrade felt the back of his neck stand up.

"You think this is fun?" Sherlock turned his cool gaze at Lestrade. He betrayed no emotions toward the officer.

"Yes." He said bluntly. Lestrade sighed and put out his cigarette too. Then, he turned to Sherlock as started to speak calmly and firmly,

"Sherlock, people are actually dying and we're partly responsible for it because we failed to prevent the crime. Our duty is to protect our citizens. That's the whole point of our service and I take pride in it. If you consider this to be some kind of a game then I will refuse to allow you into our investigation any further than this."

Sherlock smiled at this.

"Not to worry, detective inspector. I'll be taking a few days off. I've got some plans for the holidays. Besides, I advise you to do the same if possible. Or your marriage would be something quite bitter by the New Year's." Sherlock patted Lestrade's shoulder causally. "Call me if you find anything. Though I doubt the killer would do anything for a while. He takes approximately a week and a half to two weeks of break in between murders. Our next victim is being fed oat meals and bread even as we speak. Afternoon." He said in a rather cheery tone as he exited the smoking area.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Hey, sorry for the delay! I'm juggling two stories at the moment and I tend to go back and forth whenever I come up with a good-enough plot sequence. Well anyway, this is a bit of a cushion in between the upcoming plot twist. Thanks for your patience :)_**

* * *

><p>Sherlock was nodding off to sleep at the family room couch. It's ironic that it's called a family room when Sherlock never could recall a moment when his whole family was actually in this room. Father was usually busy and away at work. Mycroft was usually in his room or outside, engaged in his studies and working hard at school. Mother was usually busy cleaning up the mess Sherlock had made. He used to nestle in this couch alone and usually with a scar or two from the bullies and a book in his hand. He was an energetic boy and never settled down. The only time he did was when he was reading. Mother used to give Sherlock books that he might be interested in, and keep him busy while she ran her own errands.<p>

Nearly 20 years later, Sherlock was at the exact same spot, all by himself and without a book. Instead, an empty needle was in his hand. He could hear the faint chatter of Mycroft and mother's voice. The two spoke a lot. Sherlock had no idea what they talked about all the time. He didn't really care. Mycroft was always mummy's boy. Sherlock was never that close to his parents. Perhaps it was because he was the younger Holmes. He always came in second. Mycroft was brilliant, had a proud occupation, and knew the right thing to say at the right moment. His parents loved him and were proud of him. Sherlock always watched them marvel over Mycroft with a ginger feeling .He was just as brilliant as Mycroft, but no matter what he did, they never seemed to be as impressed as when Mycroft did something, all because he was the elder son. Mother asks Mycroft when he is going to settle down with a family. Mycroft laughs the question away merrily. Then, Mother turns to Sherlock with a darker look on her face.

"And when are you going to find a proper job, Sherlock?" Sherlock tries to laugh it off but he can't. He doesn't know how to do that so he just grimaces and eats the Christmas dinner with a shrug.

"It's always you that saddens Mummy." A voice suddenly said coldly. Sherlock opened his eyes and saw Mycroft staring down at him with an outstretched hand. "Give it to me." He demanded with a low growl. Sherlock frowned but tossed the needle lazily at his brother. Mycroft caught it with a bitter look in his face. He flashed a dangerous look down at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back with empty eyes.

"I have tolerated your absurd recreational habit Sherlock, and I have helped you try to get rid of it. If you're not going to cooperate, fine. The next time you get locked up, I won't save your neck, that's all. But I will absolutely _not_ allow you to do this in _this_ house." He said threateningly. Sherlock's eyes drooped. Mycroft shook him. "Do you understand?" He demanded but the younger Holmes flung his arms out and threw Mycroft's hand away from him.

"Don't touch me." He scowled and grabbed his coat. Before Mycroft could say anything, Sherlock burst out of the Holmes Estate.

Sherlock had rented a car to come here. He stepped on the axel and drove away from the house as quickly as he could. He knew that coming back for a Christmas dinner was a bad idea. What was he thinking? But what was he going to do once he got back to London? There was no case to work on at the moment, and surely there was no client at this time of the year? His fingers drummed the steering wheel impatiently. He pulled out a cigarette at the traffic lights and lit it. He breathed in heavily and sighed. Smoke wafted in the car. The rental store had strictly asked him not to smoke in the vehicle but Sherlock didn't care at the moment. Nothing mattered. He wished the holidays would end. He even wished for a brutal murder for his Christmas present.

…

Mrs. Lestrade kissed him in the cheek when she opened her Christmas present. He hugged her back and the two smiled at each other like that for a while. After long hard days of work, handling grim murders, staying at home with his wife felt like a completely different world and he loved every single moment of it. It was like he was dreaming. Everything was peaceful and warm. They started off with a slow morning, enjoyed their Christmas shopping, and had a wonderful time having dinner at their favorite restaurant. Now that they were home, Lestrade relaxed against the warmth of her and he felt her doing the same too. He couldn't believe that he hadn't talked to her properly for more than two weeks. He didn't understand how he was able to survive without it. Just when he pecked her cheek back and started to open his own present, his mobile buzzed. Lestrade tensed his jaws but business was business. He couldn't ignore it. He eyed his wife apologetically and stood up. As soon as he entered the kitchen room, he answered the phone.

"Yes?" He heard a faint rasp from the other side of the line. He frowned. "Hello?"

"…Lestrade?" A deep voice breathed out from the other side. It was a familiar voice. Lestrade frowned.

"Who is this?"

"…Sh-Sherlock Holmes…." The voice sounded strangely labored. "I'm…nnng…I'm…"

"You alright? What's going on?"

"Car crash." Lestrade almost dropped his phone.

"What?"

"C-car crashed…I ah…I-I need someone to…pick me up."

"Where are you?" A gasp of pain came from the other side of the line.

"Sherlock are you hurt? You should call the hospital maybe." Sherlock didn't reply immediately. He panted a few times before he grunted.

"No, I-I'm okay. I just er…I just need to get back to my, ugh!...flat."

"Sherlock-"

"Please…hurry I'm The voice trailed off.

"You're what?"

"N-nothing."

"Are you sure you're alright? Where are you?" Sherlock breathed out the address. It was only a twenty minute drive from Lestrade's place. Sherlock's breathing was heavy and there was something obviously wrong with him but Lestrade knew that the young man was too stubborn to explain. Whatever it was, Lestrade's instincts told him it was important. "Alright, I'll be there as soon as possible."

"D-don't call the ambulance…please." Sherlock mumbled. "Or the police…"

"You already did." Lestrade answered but the line went dead. Without a word, he burst out of his house.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he tried to yank his foot out again. A searing pain jolted up along his shin bone and toward his pelvis. He groaned and leaned his head back in agony. He was bleeding far worse than he had imagined and the bitter cold was doing no good. Shards of glass had cut the right side of his face and if it weren't for the air bag, his facial bone would have been shattered to pieces by now. He closed his eye and avoided blood running into it. How could he have mishandled his steering? Of course, the drug was still in his system. His car had drifted off the road and collided into a tree head first. Sherlock's foot was trapped under the wreck and though he was fully conscious, his head ached from whiplash. He thought of calling for Mycroft for help but he hesitated and decided against it. An ambulance was out of the question for he didn't want to get filed again. Who else was there? He pulled out his mobile from his coat pocket and looked at the list of contacts. It was a bit of a risk but there was only one person he could ask for help.

The street was empty and when he heard a car pull up nearby, he immediately knew that it was Lestrade. Seeing the crumpled hunk of metal, the officer dashed toward Sherlock.

"Sherlock! You alright?" Lestrade managed to pry open the driver's seat door and held his breath. Sherlock looked toward Lestrade with a sweaty face.

"Fine…I'm fine."

"No you're bloody not. I'm calling the ambulance."

"No!" Sherlock shouted but Lestrade snapped back at him.

"Shut up Sherlock this is serious!" Sherlock looked mildly surprised by Lestrade's outburst. He blinked away the sweat and sighed.

"I want a smoke."

"I'll get you one later. Right now, just try to explain to me how the hell this happened."

…

When Lestrade ducked into the room, he was greeted with Sherlock Holmes with a bandaged face and a cast on his left leg. He sat up when he saw Lestrade and grimaced. The officer folded his arms and gazed down at the tattered man. The right side of Sherlock's face was completely wrapped in gauze and only his left eye greeted with Lestrade's.

"How bad is it?"

"A fractured bone, mild concussion and shallow cuts around the face." Sherlock shrugged.

"You really slipped?" Lestrade asked dryly. Sherlock blinked. "You didn't, did you?" Sherlock didn't answer. Lestrade pulled a chair beside Sherlock and folded his legs. "Sherlock-"

"What did your wife get you?"

"What?"

"Christmas present." Lestrade blinked.

"I er…I don't know. I didn't get to open it yet." Sherlock nodded.

"Go home." He muttered. "I owe you one. But right now, I don't want to talk about it. Enjoy the rest of your holiday." Lestrade opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock's light blue eye twinkled at him. Lestrade sighed.

"Sherlock… I don't know you well. We just met. But I think there's something wrong with you." He began. Sherlock didn't change his expression. "I think you need help. I know it's not for me to say this but you really need to stop taking dru-"

"I'm not an addict." He muttered.

"Yes you are." Sherlock laughed weakly at this. Then there was a moment of silence as the older man stared at Sherlock with a concerned look.

"Just-just call me when you find something new." Sherlock murmured and pulled his bed sheet up and turned his back toward Lestrade. Lestrade stood up hesitantly and left the room.

When he got home, his wife was asleep on the couch with the lights on and a book tucked under her arms. He looked at his watch. It was half past 12. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder. He looked at the coffee table and saw an half opened parcel he had abandoned that evening. He took it gingerly in his hand. He sat at the carpet floor, beside the couch and peeled away the wrappers to find a black elegant case. He flipped it open to find a pair of sunglasses. He smiled.

"Are you home?" A voice mumbled from beside him. Lestrade turned his head and looked up to see his wife staring at him with sleepy eyes. He kissed her on the cheek and waved the sunglasses in front of her.

"Merry Christmas, honey."

…

It was exactly two weeks later, just like Sherlock had said when another body had turned up. He stared down at the body with pursed lips. It was abandoned in the middle of the street, just like John Douglass. The victim, to Lestrade's surprise, was a teenage boy. A strange sense of anger welled up inside him. He squared his jaws and turned to Sergeant Donovan.

"We're going to announce a curfew."

Sherlock turned on the small telly in his flat and curved his lips when he switched to the news channel. Lestrade's face was featured on the screen and numerous cameras flashed at him. The officer seemed cool and in control but Sherlock noticed a slight waver in his eyes. He took a drag from his cigarette and smooshed the butt into his ashtray. His ankle was completely healed and other than the slight scabs left from the cuts on his face, he was completely healed. Sherlock stretched his legs in front of him and aligned his fingers. There must have been another body, and this one had provoked Lestrade to announce a curfew.

_A young victim then…_

Sherlock's mind reeled. He itched to grab his mobile and contact Lestrade but he held himself back.

_He would call me eventually. _

He stared at the stash of cocaine left on the table. Then, he switched his gaze toward the telly where Lestrade was still talking about the progress of the investigation. He snatched the stash away and stuffed it into the back of a near-by drawer.

As soon as Lestrade got back to his office, he was greeted by the Chief Inspector, who had a grim look on his face.

"What the hell were you thinking, Lestrade?" Lestrade straightened his back and tried to look as confident as possible.

"It's the best thing to do."

"The curfew, yes. But you didn't have to hold a goddamn press conference for it!" Lestrade frowned.

"With all due respect, Sir, there's a dangerous killer out there and I needed to send out the message nice and clearly to the public." He said firmly. The chief inspector shook his head.

"No Lestrade, you made a big mistake. It's been only a few days since the New Years and the press has absolutely no story to work on. Did you even think for one second, how many would pounce on this? They would tear us to shreds, Lestrade. They have been already nagging at us for months, what were you thinking? What you did was like pouring petrol into a ball of fire!" Lestrade's superior towered over him but Lestrade stood firmly in his place. "Lestrade, you are relieved of your command. You need to rest."

"What!" Lestrade objected.

"You need to cool off a little. I know you've been working hard for the past few months but frankly, there is no progress here. I'm handing the case over to Gregson. His investigation against Carter was put on hold a few weeks ago. He can manage. You are to assist him."

"Sir, this is just-"

"Lestrade," The chief inspector looked firmly at him. "This is an order." Lestrade bit the inside of his cheeks until they bled.


	7. Chapter 7

Gregson made a strange scoffing noise as he closed the files and handed the pile back to Lestrade.

"What do you make of it?" Lestrade asked with a bitter feeling in his stomach.

"Typical serial murder. I have no idea why it takes so long for you to catch one single lunatic, Greg." He said with a sigh and tossed the last file onto Lestrade's desk. Lestrade bit his lower lip.

"It's not typical. The murderer is careful to leave no trace."

"But there _is _a pattern. Look at what he feeds or what he does to the victims. His MO is always the same. It's so persistent, there's no way you could miss it!" Lestrade shot an annoyed look at Gregson. For some reason he was more intolerable than Sherlock Holmes. "Look, I only took this case because our testifier, Fred Porlock went missing. I shouldn't even be on this case if it weren't for you. I should be searching for a missing man, goddamit. Don't give me that ungrateful look because you bloody well ought to be." He burst and then grabbed a file and tapped it in front of Lestrade's case.

"Let's start from him, shall we?" Lestrade looked at the name of the victim.

"John Douglass, you mean the drug dealer case? What about it?"

"He's connected to Samuel Carter." Gregson said in an isn't-it-obvious tone. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Tobias, please don't merge your case with mine. This is a completely different case!" He blurted.

"No, as a supreme investigator of this case, I think that you should cooperate with me in exchange for burdening with _my _investigation against Samuel Carter. The only reason why I agreed to take this case was because one of the victims was connected to Carter. I think I ought to hit two birds with one stone. Unlike you, I know how to do things efficiently." Lestrade tensed his jaw and clenched his fist but fought hard not to lash out. If he did, he would definitely be suspended from the investigation and that was something he definitely didn't want.

"The deaths are all _random_." Lestrade said through his gritted teeth.

…

"Why would he do that, they're all random." Sherlock remarked over his mobile phone as he flicked through the newspapers lazily. He was feeling rather well today since he got a fresh stash and just took a shot of heroine.

"I know, that's what I told him." Lestrade said in an exasperated tone. "He won't listen."

"Of course he won't. He only cares about solving _his_ case. He's just posing as a new chief investigator and you as his assistant but in reality, you're suspended from any investigation." Sherlock sniffed. "A bit dull of you to not notice such an elementary fact." Lestrade sighed.

"I'm well aware of that, Sherlock. Thank you."

"You're just worried that even as you speak, the killer's on the loose, feeding the next victim with oat meals." Sherlock noted.

"Yes, well deduced." The inspector answered with a slightly irritated tone. Perhaps calling Sherlock wasn't a very good idea after all. Suddenly Sherlock broke off into a silent chuckle. "What," the elder man snapped irritably.

"Oh no, nothing…" Sherlock's voice trailed off but Lestrade could tell that he was still stifling a laugh. "Sherlock, are you on something again?" No reply came. Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you need hel-"

"You're the one that needs help, Lestrade. The best solution available at the moment is to obey Gregson's orders and help his investigation. As soon as you get him out of the way, the sooner you can return to your command."

"What, you want me to go looking for a missing junkie? You have to be kidding me. He could be anywhere. He could have even run out of the country by now!"

"If you're in need of help you know where to find me." There was a click and the line went dead. He hated how Sherlock always changed the topic to his own conveniences.

Luckily for Lestrade, Fred Porlock was found a few days later. Unfortunately for Gregson, Fred was found dead. Sherlock he was summoned to the scene promptly by the two baffled supreme officers. Sherlock kneeled down beside the body which was abandoned in the middle of deserted woodland. He sniffed at the body and scrunched his nose up.

"He's been dead for a while. Looks like the killer didn't want him to be found this time." Sherlock murmured as he lifted his head to look around. "But his pride kept him from burying the body. That's strictly against his policy. But why?" He gazed up at the surrounding officers but none of them replied. Sherlock shrugged. He examined the skinned areas and other cuts and bruises. They were well executed just like the other ones. "There's no sign of fault. It's a perfect masterpiece just like any other. Then why would he try to hide it like this? Wouldn't he want to show it off?" Gregson shot an uncertain glance at Lestrade. This special profiler of his that Lestrade consulted made him strangely uneasy. Suddenly, Sherlock began to pace around the body, his coat flicking behind him. He pressed his fingertips together hand placed it under his chin, muttering to himself. Lestrade worried if Sherlock had taken something again but his eyes seemed to be fully alert and there was no sign of cloudiness. Suddenly, Sherlock came to a stop. He looked at Lestrade, his lips thin, eyes wide and face paler than usual.

"Hell," he murmured in a low voice.

"I'm sorry?" Gregson asked with a slightly unnerved tone. Sherlock started to stride around the body again. This time, his gestures were frantic and he was scratching his head.

"Hell, I was wrong this whole time!" He blurted. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" he stomped the grassy floor several times and then advanced toward the officers. They all cowered back intimidated by Sherlock's raging complexion. Even Anderson backed away. "I can't believe it, I was wrong!" He said hysterically. "Lestrade, this is absolutely outrageous, I was wrong!" He said again. Gregson nudged at Lestrade in a silent gesture of "do something about this maniac."

"Sherlock, Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"The deaths! These murders are not _random_!" Sherlock exclaimed. Then, his expression of delight and realization suddenly shifted into shame and despair. "I can't believe I've made such an easy mistake. I've never made a mistake. This is just so _stupid_." He said more to himself and he began to drift into the back of the woods, completely induced in his own world. Lestrade grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Hold on, what do you mean they aren't random?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock said, brushing off Lestrade's grasp. "It's random _on purpose_. No wonder the details fit in perfectly. I thought it was weird with all the scattered crime scenes and the bodies and now this…" Sherlock muttered on to himself and paced around them at an even quicker pace. Gregson turned to Lestrade.

"What's he rambling on about?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking." Sherlock snapped as he paced behind Gregson. Lestrade tried hard to hide his smirk. It was only a few minutes later when Sherlock finally came to a stop and stooped beside the body. "I think I can catch the killer." He started. "But I need a bait. If my deductions are correct, you'll have the killer behind the bars in a week or so."

Lestrade begged for Sherlock to explain what he meant by the killing being "random on purpose" as they climbed into their cars to head toward the investigation headquarter. The young consulting detective merely rolled his eyes and placed his head against the window. He heaved a sigh.

"Stop rubbing it on to me, Lestrade. I know I made a mistake, okay? End of story." The detective inspector frowned at this word.

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock groaned and pressed the heel of his left hand into his eye.

"Come on, Lestrade, it's not funny."

"What-"

"I WAS WRONG, OKAY?" Sherlock roared. Lestrade widened his eyes incredulously and stared back at Sherlock for a moment. The young man was enthusiastic a few moments ago, now he seemed very sour and irritable. Noting the elder man's alarm, Sherlock softened his features and placed his head back onto the window. "I never make mistakes. I never have…" He muttered. "But how would I know if all the details and evidence were laid out so that they would point to one direction?" He sighed again. "I should have known. It was too easy, too simple, too…_elegant_." Sherlock rambled on. Lestrade kept an ear pricked up towards Sherlock as he kept his eyes on the road.

"So you're saying that we were all set up to believe that the killer appeared randomly?"

"No I'm not talking about his whereabouts. I'm talking about the victims. They aren't random." Sherlock squared his jaws. "They're all pieces of the puzzle. The bigger picture…well, it would be quicker if I demonstrate it rather than explain it. I need to talk to William Dale."

"You mean the new drug dealer?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"I need to check something."

"Well you bloody well aren't going there alone." Sherlock flicked an annoyed look at Lestrade.

"Fine, but you aren't coming with me since your face was all over the television screen the other day." Lestrade shrugged.

"I'll assign someone to tag along with you, then."

…

A few days later, Sherlock and Anderson strolled into the shadows of the tattered flat. The two didn't say much as they treaded up the stairs. As soon as they arrived to a door at the end of the corridor, Sherlock held up his gloved hand. Their breaths were visible as white clouds in the cold. Anderson was shivering. Sherlock eyed him with an annoyed look.

"Can't you breathe a bit quietly?" Anderson scowled at him in return. Sherlock huffed and reached for the door knob.

"What, wait, what in the world are you doing?" Anderson hissed and grabbed the consulting detective's wrist. Sherlock rolled his eyes again and stuck his free hand into his pocket.

"I said I need to talk to him. How am I supposed to do that if we don't go inside?" He explained as he rummaged around in his pocket and pulled out a lock pick. Anderson eyed the instrument with an alarmed expression.

"That's breaking and entering, you idiot!" Anderson hissed.

"Oh shut up." Sherlock muttered. "If you're so uncomfortable with it, just stay outside." Anderson made a strange gawking noise and tried to pry Sherlock's hand away but the detective was s swift lock picker and the door came free before Anderson could utter another protest. The detective slipped inside before he even managed to grasp his arm. The officer swore under his breath and followed him. Sherlock seated himself on the couch and folded his legs as if he was relaxing at home. Anderson placed a hand over his face and huffed.

"We need to get out of here right now. I thought you were just going to confront him at the front door. Why in the world did you have to break in?" Sherlock looked up at Anderson with a questioning look as if Anderson had just said something incredibly stupid that he had trouble comprehending it.

"What, and let him run away? Please, Anderson, like anyone would approach a stranger looming over its front door." Sherlock brushed his coat and stood up again. "Now, you stand over there." Sherlock pointed to the side of the couch. "And I will stand over here. Your job is to stay as silent as possible until he arrives home. Okay? That's all you have to do." Sherlock locked the front door from the inside and flashed a dry smile at him. Anderson grimaced but placed his hand on his holster in case something happened. Sherlock flicked off the lights and the two stood in complete silence.

"Oh this is stupid," Anderson started to complain, completely unnerved by the darkness when Sherlock shushed him. Anderson tried to object but he was shushed again. Realizing that it was no use, he decided to bite his tongue and stand there in silence.

It was probably fifteen minutes later when there was a distant footstep and a jangling noise of keys. Anderson saw Sherlock's figure shift in the darkness. The forensics officer gulped. The door knob started to turn. Sherlock silently stepped back. Anderson did the same. Light flooded inside the room as the door cracked open. Anderson realized that he was in plain sight of the entering man. He panicked and looked for somewhere to hide. Suddenly, there was an alarmed yelp. Anderson jerked his head toward the noise to see Sherlock tackling the man from his back and wrapping his neck with some kind of a rope. The man clawed at his throat and gargled.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" Anderson bellowed. Sherlock ignored him and kept on strangling the man. He kicked at the back of the man's knees with a swipe and the man fell down. Sherlock carefully kept the noose tight around his throat as he pulled out a handcuff from his pocket and quickly restrained Dale's hand. The drug dealer's face was a dark shade of red and he was blowing bubbles. Anderson hurried toward the man to save him from the monster but Sherlock pushed him away. One Dale's hands were immobile, Sherlock kicked the man to his stomach and let go of the rope. The man fall face first onto the floor and gasped for air. Sherlock roughly placed a foot over his back and pulled out a cigarette from his pack and casually lit it. Noticing that Anderson was staring at him with a horrified look, he raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"What, I was gasping." Before Anderson could say anything, Sherlock dropped his gaze down at William Dale and nudged him in the back with the heel of his shoes. The man groaned.

"Who's in charge of accounting the stash?" He demanded and took a drag from his cigarette. Dale only whimpered and didn't answer. Sherlock sighed and dug his heel deeper into Dale's back.

"Come on answer me." Only a gargle came in reply. Sherlock blew out some smoke and rummaged under his coat.

"What the…!" Anderson advanced toward Sherlock as he saw the young detective draw out a gun. Sherlock flung him a warning look. Anderson stooped at the place, completely terrified. The slender fingers wrapped around the handle as he pressed it behind Dale's head. Dale started squirming but Sherlock stepped onto his back even harder.

"I want the name in Five seconds. Four, three, two…"

"Sherlock stop it!" Anderson screamed. "I swear to god if you shoot him Lestrade is going to-" Suddenly, Sherlock flung the gun point toward Anderson with a menacing look.

"Just shut up." He growled under his voice. "Or all of you will be dead." Anderson took a step back with his hands raised above his head. Sherlock ground his teeth irritably and kicked the drug dealer again. "Tell me now!" He shouted. Dale whimpered. Sherlock cocked his gun. Anderson opened his mouth to shout and pull out his own gun when Dale screamed,

"Edward Simons! He keeps track of the business...! So dammit, put that gun away!" Sherlock raised his chin and gazed down at Dale judgingly.

"Who keeps track of the staff?"

"That's his job too." Dale blurted. Sherlock grunted in satisfaction and shoved Dale back to the floor and knocked him out with a swift swing in the head with a gun. Then, he slipped out of the room without saying anything. Anderson took several seconds to recollect himself before he dashed after the half mad man. Sherlock marched out the flat and into Anderson's cruiser without saying a single word. His mouth was just tightly and his jaws were set. He had thrown the cigarette butt onto the street and stepped on it before he mounted the car. Anderson jumped into the driver's seat, his heart still thumping from the fright. Sherlock was already fastening his seat belt. Anderson shoved at Sherlock with rage.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?" He roared. Sherlock shot an annoyed look at Anderson. "HOW WERE YOU SUPPOSED TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY IF SOMETHING WENT WRONG?" The officer shouted at Sherlock but the young man merely glared at him with a cold gaze that intimidated Anderson to shut his mouth.

"We already_ did_ mess up, you git." He spat at Anderson. "You mentioned Lestrade and my name in front of him. We're all in danger." Anderson's blood rushed away from his face. _Just shut up or all of you will be dead. _Anderson finally understood that the words that Sherlock had just said in Dale's flat weren't a threat but a real warning. "Thanks to you, your whole investigation team's face will be cracked in no time."

…

Lestrade saw Anderson and Sherlock return to the office a few hours after their departure. Anderson's face was a white as sheet and Sherlock looked very agitated and glum. He wondered if it was one of his drug-induced mood swings again. It turned out that it wasn't. Sherlock slammed his hands in front of Lestrade and made the detective inspector jump.

"I want to talk in private." Sherlock demanded and stole an accusing glare at Anderson. Lestrade blinked but nodded. Anderson let out an aggravated sigh and reluctantly left the office. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock who was now pacing around the office. He closed all blinds hastily and turned to the detective inspector with a tense look.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me"

"Lestrade, I need you to do exactly what I say." Lestrade's eyebrow twitched in confusion. "Understand?" Sherlock pressed.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you…"

"I said do you _understand?" _Lestrade's mouth opened slightly but he nodded.

"Call your wife."

"What?"

"Just call her!"

"Now?"

"Yes, now!" Lestrade pulled out his mobile phone, afraid that Sherlock would strangle him if he didn't do as he was told. He raised it to his ear as he pressed the dial button.

"Tell her to evacuate immediately."

"What?" Lestrade blurted in confusion as he waited for the other person to pick up the line. Sherlock paced around the office agitatedly.

"Tell her not to go to any friend's house. A hotel would be safer." Sherlock ordered.

"Wait, what, what do you mean safer?" Before he could demand for Sherlock to answer his question, there was a faint click as Mrs. Lestrade picked up the call.

"Hello," She said. Sherlock stared intently at Lestrade who merely looked back at him with a stunned expression.

"Oh um, it's me." He said as if he just remembered how to talk.

"Greg, are you going to be late tonight too?" Lestrade grimaced.

"Honey, there's something important I need to tell you." He started. Sherlock nodded.

"Tell her to pack her things and get out of there within an hour."

"I want you to pack your things and evacuate immediately to a hotel. You're not safe at home."

"…What?" His wife said in a tone very similar to Lestrade's just a few minutes ago.

"Yes. It's urgent and I don't have time to explain but you need to get out of the house right now. Don't go to anyone else's house. Just check into a hotel."

"And tell her to inform you of her whereabouts next week." Sherlock instructed. Lestrade placed a hand over the receiver.

"_What?_" He hissed. Sherlock merely shook his head and glared at him with a stern look.

"And tell stay there until next week. No, don't tell me where you're going. Just stay there, okay?"

"And she is not to contact you until so." Lestrade flung a horrified look at Sherlock.

"What, Greg, what's going on?"

"It's security procedure, okay? And I can't have you calling me until then."

"_What?"_ Lestrade winced.

"I know, I'm really sorry but grab whatever you need and just go, okay? I'll explain it to you when it's all over. Love you." Before he could hear her say anything, Sherlock grabbed the phone and turned it off. Lestrade gaped up at him.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed. The young consulting detective merely shook his head. Lestrade stood up. "You bloody well ought to have a good explanation for all this. Are you on drugs or something?" Sherlock handed the phone back. Lestrade snatched it back with a huff.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began. "You are in danger. Anderson leaked the name. Sooner or later he'll come for you."

"Who?" Sherlock threw his hands up in the air.

"The killer!" He dropped his hands back to his side and started to pace around again.

"I was going to use myself as bait but Anderson lost it and started blabbering names."

"What, you mean the serial killer?" Lestrade frowned.

"Yes, obviously, what other killer are we talking about, hmm?" Sherlock dismissed it agitatedly. The detective inspector was completely lost. He shook his head.

"I'm not following Sherlock. What does that drug dealer have anything to do with the killer?"

"Don't you see?" Sherlock advanced toward Lestrade, his tall figure towered over the elder man. Lestrade stumbled back to his desk. "The killer is _hired _by Carter; a professional assassin." Seeing that the detective inspector was still lost, Sherlock decided to elaborate.

"The random deaths aren't random. They're designed to be part of the puzzle piece to make it look like a serial murder. Those were all sacrifices. The killer doesn't really enjoy those killings. He's just acting like he's enjoying it. The true motive is to eliminate trailers in the crime circle. The fact that two drug related deaths were in the lists of victim wasn't a coincidence. That was their primary goal. The other victim are just…cover ups. Do you see?" It took a moment for Lestrade to understand the words and process it through his head. He let out a weak laugh.

"You're kidding, right? That's crazy. That's just plain crazy."

"I know. We _are_ dealing with a crazy!" Sherlock exclaimed. Lestrade thought it was ironic to have those words coming out from Sherlock's mouth of all people. "And he's not just any crazy. He's a hired crazy, which makes the matter all the more complex. No wonder why you lot haven't caught him yet…not when I was chasing the wrong person all the time as well…the evidence were laid meticulously. Anyone would have been tricked." Sherlock stopped pacing around. "Anyway, they know that you're investigating against them thanks to Anderson. You need to keep yourself safe at all times. I'm supposed to be the main bait." The young man explained excitedly.

"Hold on, what? What do you mean the main bait?"

"It's the only way to catch the killer. I'm going to make Carter order the killer to kill me. I was going to interrogate the main members of the drug trade. Leak my name out and draw attention to myself. A private detective investigating against a drug lord; that would definitely work, right?" Sherlock flashed a manic smile and grabbed Lestrade's shoulder.

"Yeah, that might draw attention…wait what?"

"I was only going to draw their attention to me but it seems that they're locked on to both you and me."


	8. Chapter 8

Anderson remembered the blue eyes flashing at him in the semi darkness. Its glare was so intense that it still made him queasy just by thinking about it. Those were not the eyes of a sane man. The sergeant shivered as he saw Sherlock Holmes hurry out of the front entrance of the Scotland Yard and hail a cab through Lestrade's office window. His superior seemed to have noticed his discomfort and cleared his throat.

"Do you mind telling me what happened tonight? Sherlock seemed a bit…edgy about it." Anderson turned to Lestrade who was now swerving around in his chair lazily as he played around with his pen. Despite the fact that the officer had been warned that his life was in danger; he seemed to be calm and relaxed.

"That man is insane, Sir." He blurted. "He almost killed Dale. He broke into his flat, pulled out a gun and interrogated him. With all due respect, Sir, I don't think consulting Sherlock Holmes is not a good idea. He's too…dangerous. He's obviously not just a _profiler_. For heaven's sake, everyone's aware of that. He's not _normal_." Anderson was heaving by the time he spilled everything out. Lestrade sighed and placed his pen down.

"You're right," He began. Anderson relaxed his shoulders, glad that his superior had come to his senses. "He's not normal, no. In fact, he's brilliant at what he does." The forensics officer gawked at this. Lestrade looked up at him and grimaced. "I'll tell him to be careful with his methods but for the time being, trust him."

"Sir, you can't expect me to restrain him every time he barges into someone's home. He's psychotic! What if he hurts someone, what if-"

"If that happens I will take full responsibility, but for the time being, he's provided us with more leads than we could have ever found ourselves. He's certainly more helpful than Gregson." At this the detective inspector's eyes clouded. Anderson understood what was going on here. Lestrade was prepared to hire a devil if it meant outrunning his rival. Being suspended from the investigation, Lestrade was losing sense of what was right and wrong.

"Sir," Anderson started warningly. "You don't understand…"

"Trust me on this, Anderson." Lestrade flashed a smile at him. "We're finally going toward the right direction. I know it. Just trust me on this. If I feel that Sherlock is endangering the investigation, I will resign him of his duty. For the time being," Lestrade flourished toward his office door. "Keep up the good work." Anderson just stared down at his superior for a few seconds before he turned toward the door reluctantly. As he placed a hand on the door, he turned his head toward Lestrade.

"Sir, I…" Anderson licked his lips. "I'm sorry for the slip today…I just, I didn't mean to…"

"I know you didn't." Lestrade said with a nod. "It's all fine."

…

A few weeks later, another body emerged and Gregson was furious because it was a teenage girl this time.

"What's the point of having a curfew if teenagers age getting killed?" He growled as he watched the body getting sacked into a bag.

"He's mocking us." Sherlock murmured. Lestrade turned around to see Sherlock standing behind them with a contended smile.

"And what are you smiling about?" Gregson snapped at the young detective. Sherlock shrugged and pulled out a slip of paper. "I forgot to tell you about this. I'm sure it will help you with your Carter case. These are the list of names responsible for the main drug shipments in the UK. It took a while to get all these names…I hope you'll put it to good use." Gregson snapped the paper away from Sherlock's gloved hands and opened it. His eyes widened as he scanned through the list. His mouth gaped open. So did Lestrade's.

"What…how did you…?" The chubby detective inspector asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"I have my sources… a couple of connection from my past clients." Lestrade blinked at Sherlock. The young detective flickered a look at Lestrade and then back at Gregson. The man was tucking the list in his pocket. Sherlock flashed a fake smile at him and then turned toward the body which was now being carted into a car.

"Now, I'm pretty sure we'll find nothing new on the autopsy but let's head to Bart's anyway, shall we?" Gregson shot an annoyed look at Sherlock but didn't say anything. The tall lanky man had just handed him some information that he had been craving for the past few months. Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes was a mere _special profiler_, no one dared to question his overriding authority in this investigation. They had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was more help than nuisance. The investigators scuttled to their cars as the forensics still swept the area. As Sherlock mounted into Lestrade's car and pulled on his seatbelt, the detective inspector grabbed the young man's wrist.

"What was all that about?" Lestrade demanded. "How did you get all those information? Even our top investigators couldn't get half of the names in there." Sherlock gave him a isn't-it-obvious look with his twinkling eyes.

"It's me, Detective Inspector. Does it surprise you?" Sherlock tugged at the seatbelt and clipped it on, but Lestrade noticed a slight wince flash across the younger man's face as he tugged. Lestrade grabbed back Sherlock's left arm and pulled up the sleeves.

"What happened to this?" He asked as he indicated Sherlock's heavily bandaged left arm. Sherlock tugged it away and smoothed the creases on his clothes.

"_Nothing_."

"No, it's not nothing." Lestrade insisted and remembered what Anderson had said a few days ago. "Sherlock, I don't want you to push yourself too hard. I know what you're doing is strictly legal. If you keep violating that law to help us, I'll need to let you go." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Please, Lestrade, it's called undercover investigation." Lestrade heaved a sigh.

"Right, fine, well don't do it again, alright?" Sherlock shrugged.

"Don't worry, I don't need to anymore. The trap has been laid." Lestrade frowned as the younger man smiled smugly.

"What?"

"The bait, remember?" The consulting detective said proudly. "They took the bait. Sooner or later, they'll be after me. Now all you have to do is keep an eye on me and when the killer pounces, you can get them red-handed. Isn't that wonderful?" Sherlock breathed excitedly. Lestrade squared his jaw and grumbled as he started the car. For the first time since the New Years, Lestrade felt was feeling uncomfortable. Perhaps he should have taken his instincts more seriously.

…

As expected, they couldn't find anything new from the autopsy. Molly seemed to be getting the hang of handling dead bodies as she guided them through what she found without the help of her instructor. Sherlock listened to each detail intently and asked some questions. Molly provided him with the answers swiftly and the consulting detective nodded while the two other detective inspectors were standing in the back with their arms folded. After a few minutes of this and that, Gregson excused himself saying that he had some other work to do. Lestrade, glad that his rival was finally out of the scene, heaved a sigh of relief and waited until whatever else Sherlock wanted to know about the autopsy results. As the two strode out into the chilly air again, Lestrade bit his lips.

"So, what do we do now?" Lestrade asked. "Wait for another body?"

"No, no, no," Sherlock said as he pulled out a smoke and lit it casually. "The waiting part's over." He offered a pack to Lestrade, who took it gingerly. He remembered he had promised his wife that he would stop smoking as a New Year resolution, but since he won't be seeing her for a while, he decided it wouldn't hurt. "By now, Carter's fretting that some kind of an amateur investigator's leaking information to the police. They'll be after me in no time." Sherlock breathed and smiled at Lestrade gleefully. "Get some surveillance team ready and monitor my movements." Lestrade nodded. "Oh," Sherlock started as if he just remembered something. "But you be careful too. Keep in mind that Anderson leaked your name out too. _And_ you're face is rather well-known thanks to that press conference you held a while ago. The killer might come after you. Though I hardly doubt it since I'm sure Carter's not stupid enough to launch an attack on the police. But you know," The tall man shrugged. "Just in case."

He noticed a new mail in his inbox. His lips curved up into a smile. It's been a while since he received one. The last one had been a rather disappointing one; just one man. He was craving for more. Of course, he could always grab someone off the street and pleasure himself with it but nothing beats that sense of duty and the glee of being needed by someone. This was his job and he felt proud of it. He was an artist. Yes he was a nobody. Yet he was a nobody with immense power. He licked his lips in anticipation as he opened the document. There was a name typed into it.

"_Sherlock Holmes_" He echoed in his mouth and tasted the words. It felt weird. He scrolled down to see the several pictures attached to it. He craned his neck at the pictures and marveled. The slender man seemed fairly younger than the usual targets. His other targets usually stank of power and money but this man didn't seem so corrupted. However, he had a slight smell of eccentricity and intellect that seemed to sharp for a typical lowly drug dealer that nicked stashes. He certainly didn't like the flourish in his fashionable coat or the piercing gaze. It wasn't his taste. The look in his eyes reminded him a bit of himself. There was a manic shine to it that only _his _kind had. Oh he did not like this one. This would certainly be a tricky one. As he scrolled down to the very last photograph, his hands froze over the mouse. He double clicked the photo to see an enlarged version of it. He squinted. Sherlock Holmes was standing next to a man dressed in a trim suit, with a balanced face and a down to earth expression. The hairs along his hairlines were starting to grey. He licked his lips again. He knew that man. That was that officer who was investigating him. Oh this was getting interesting isn't it? What was his name? Oh yes

"_Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade_" He liked the sound of it. It certainly tasted better than Sherlock Holmes. It was a pity that he wasn't listed in the kill list. He certainly seemed more appealing than Sherlock Holmes. Far more vulnerable yet, he would most certainly put up a good fight. Perhaps he should check him out after he was finished with Sherlock Holmes. Now that was something to look forward to.

…

A week passed and nothing happened. Sherlock paced around the office agitatedly.

"I don't understand. The waiting's done." The tall man said and huffed. Lestrade was sitting at his desk, watching the consulting detective walk up and down with a tired look.

"Sherlock, you can't expect things to happen so rapidly."

"Are there any new bodies?"

"It's only been a week since the last one."

"Oh this is _tedious_." Anderson, who was in the corner of the room, his hands folded, scoffed at this exclamation.

"Oh shut up, we should be happy that no one's dead." Sherlock waved Anderson away.

"Were there anyone around me that seemed suspicious?" Donovan, who was in charge of monitoring Sherlock's surrounding gave a shrug.

"Apart from you? No." The young man shot an annoyed look at her and then waved outside Lestrade's office.

"What about Gregson? What the hell is he doing anyway?"

"He's investigating the names that you gave him. I got to thank you for that. He's completely preoccupied with his other investigation." Lestrade smiled. Sherlock stopped pacing at these words.

"Did he say anything about it?" Lestrade shrugged.

"No, why not?"

"The idiot." Sherlock muttered in agitation. Anderson, Donovan and Lestrade exchanged confused looks. "He should have realized by now that more than half of them are either dead or missing." Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"They are?"

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock threw his hands up in the air and started pacing. "The killer got to them before you lot could. Some have been dead for more than 2 years. Gregson's going after a dead end. I was hoping he would realize it by now and start searching for the bodies." The three made an o shape with their mouths. Finally, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf from Lestrade's chair and started for the door.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asked. The young man merely replied,

"Bored" Before he exited the Scotland Yard without another word.

…

By the time the consulting detective reached his flat, the sun had fallen. He had to go quite a distance to get what he wanted. He didn't need it for a while. In fact he had been off it for nearly four weeks, which was a new record. But now, his hands were shaking as he pulled out the pack from his coat pocket and threw them on the table. He shrugged off his coat and jacket, rolled up his sleeves and he searched around the flat for what he needed. He opened his bathroom cabinet and found an unused needle. He smiled at this. A clean needle was better than a reused one. He grabbed a spoon and flopped on the couch with anticipation. He flicked the plastic bag once and stared at the white powder. He could almost feel the tingling effects even before he injected it. His experienced hands whipped around the instruments efficiently. He knew the drill. He had done it so many times. Within minutes, the substance was ready. He grabbed his scarf and tightened it around his arm and pressed the tip of the needle in his arms. He waited for that familiar sense of warmth as he pressed the piston all the way in. As he inhaled, Sherlock closed his eyes. His eyelids fluttered.

For the first time however, Sherlock felt a bit guilty for his action. Maybe that was what was triggering the unfamiliar sensation in his chest. He frowned and pulled out the empty needle and stared at the now empty plastic bag. What was this feeling? Sherlock flexed his arm and stood up. He was thirsty. He shifted and almost fell over his legs. _Strange, that never happened before._ The consulting detective managed to stumble toward the kitchen as he ran the water when his knees gave in and his breathing became shallow. The edges of his vision blurred and he wasn't feeling well. He frowned to himself. It's been a while since he last did this. Had he overdosed? Sherlock was always careful about the measurements. He never wanted Mycroft to come running to him and send him to the hospital. What a shame that would be. Sherlock sometimes became highly intoxicated and a bit tipsy by the effects of drugs but he never overdosed. _Is this what this is? An overdose? _Suddenly, his heart sped up and his hands shook. He grabbed the edge of the kitchen counter and gritted his teeth. After a few seconds of grunting and heaving, he managed to pull himself up over the kitchen sink, where he vomited. He grabbed his phone. It was ringing. He looked at the caller ID as he spat the grime from his mouth. He swayed at his feet as he turned the running water off. He heaved a few deep breaths before stumbling against the wall. He pressed the phone against his ear.

"Good news Sherlock, we just found another body." Lestrade's voice rang in his ear. Sherlock winced. "This time in Soho." Sherlock slid to the floor with a groan. "Sherlock, you hear me? Are you up?" The detective tried to open his mouth to say something but his lips were numb and his tongue felt like they were blown into four times its usual size. His vision became completely white for a second before it returned back to normal. All he could do was breathe into the receiver.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shook his head as he collapsed to the floor. Lestrade must have heard the slight thud from the other side of the line. "Sherlock?" But Sherlock wasn't listening. The phone had skidded across the floor, out of his reach and Sherlock was hardly breathing. His heart ached for oxygen but his body would not move. Sweat matted his hair and his hands were shaking. He wished in his head that Lestrade would bloody realize what was wrong before he blacked out.


End file.
